Like Sarah, Who Laughed
by Rosawyn
Summary: Steve has known for years that he'll never have a soulmate. Sam has known his whole life that his soulmate is a lot older than him. Neither one quite gets quite what he expected. (Related fic to my "Fingerprints and Soul-scars" series)


o0o

**Like Sarah, Who Laughed**

o0o

When Steve Rogers reaches his fifteenth birthday without a soul-mark, he knows that means he'll likely never get one. And that's okay, really. It makes him strange, makes him stand out, but so do so many things—what does one more matter? "You've still got time," Bucky says, trying to be reassuring. "Maybe you're just a late-bloomer." As if Steve doesn't already know that.

When Bucky's twenty, the soft pink mark on his neck scars, never giving him a chance to meet his soulmate. It had appeared when Bucky was two years old, so whoever it was died at eighteen. "I'm sorry," Steve says, and means it—tears tangling in his throat as he squeezes Bucky's shoulder. But Bucky shakes his head and tries to smile. Which is worse, anyway? A soulmate you never meet or no soulmate at all? Maybe Bucky will get a secondary mark. If anyone deserves one, it's Bucky.

Steve turns twenty, still unmarked. It's official, and it's okay. It is. It is okay. It's a mercy, really, that no one will be forced to accept a skinny, sickly, stupidly stubborn boy, like the universe's booby prize.

o0o

When the serum heals Steve's body, his neck remains unmarked. He'd somehow hoped—foolish, wild—that somehow that would be fixed as well. But being unmarked was never part of what was broken; Howard too, healthy and brilliant and successful—and a year older than Steve—is also unmarked.

"It just means we can have whoever we want," Howard says, tilting his head with a flippant smirk. "That's how I like to see it, anyway." But it _doesn't_, not really. Because Steve wants _Peggy_, but Peggy has a mark. She's meant for someone else—someone else is meant for her.

o0o

Howard analyzes the marks of all the Commandos—it's a hobby, and as Dugan says with a grin and a shrug, "Might as well, if you're offering for free."

Most analysts charge far more than the average person could consider paying, but Howard's trying to do research, so technically they're all doing _him_ a favour. "Who knows," he says, waggling his eyebrows, "maybe I'll even find a match or two." They all laugh and exchange friendly nudges, because none of them have found their soulmates yet—and aside from Steve with his unmarked neck and Bucky with his scar, they all have viable marks.

A few card games and several drinks later, Peggy and Gabe come up as a match amidst a storm of cheers, congratulations, salutes, and pats on the back. It'll be a little harder for the rest to find their matches, but that's how it goes. No one expected them all to pair neatly off.

Dernier starts the cry, but everyone wants to see if the marks react. Sharing a look, Peggy and Gabe both shrug and let everyone watch while they test out their marks. The light brown mark on Peggy's neck goes bright red at Gabe's touch. Peggy can't coax a colour change out of the peach mark on Gabe's neck, but he says it feels a bit like static electricity when she touches it.

"So you two'll get married?" Morita asks, raising his mug to their health.

"Let's win the war fist," Peggy suggests, putting her hand on Gabe's shoulder and smiling at the group.

"Sounds good to me," Gabe agrees.

Of course they'll get married; that's what soulmates do once they find each other. It's only a question of when and where, of families and churches and flowers, of dresses and ties and rings.

Steve is sitting alone, hands folded in his lap, quietly happy for his friends and trying to ignore the ache in his heart, when Howard slides into the seat beside him. "I'm sorry," Howard says, voice low and shoulder pressing a bit against Steve's as he leans close. "This can't be easy for you."

"What?" Steve shakes his head. "No, no—don't be sorry." This isn't about _Steve_. This isn't about the things he'll never have. "This is...good. You were a great help to them. That's—" He gestures to where Peggy is leaning into Gabe's side, laughing at something Monty said. "What you did for them, it's very kind." If it's not easy for Steve, then it can't be easy for _Howard_ either.

And it's not like Steve's _alone_. He still has Bucky. Bucky, who's out flirting and dancing—who has no reason to participate in 'soul-mark analysis night', after all. He asked Steve to come along, but Steve doesn't dance unless you count his brief time as a chorus girl, and watching Peggy and Gabe find each other was something he could have only done once—not that he knew anyone would match, not that he might not have reconsidered had he known _Peggy_ would find hers. But he's happy for them. Happy. And he's seen Bucky dance a hundred times.

"Walk with me." Howard stands up. Steve follows. As they're strolling through the damp evening air, Howard slides his hands into his pockets and tilts his head to one side, watching Steve out of the corners of his eyes and saying, "In a way...you could say _we_ match."

Steve looks sideways at him, eyes slightly narrowed, but...it makes sense. "I suppose you could say that, yeah," he agrees. Everyone knows Howard's reputation, and it's pretty much the opposite of Steve's. But what is Steve waiting for? He doesn't _have_ a soulmate. There is no one waiting for him. After a moment of quiet, Steve slides his own hands into his pockets and ducks his head, admitting, "I like...I like your smile." He's sketched it a couple of times from memory, but never quite gotten it right.

The air feels thick, like in a dream. He lets Howard lead him to his fancy room, lets Howard kiss him—he has no idea what he's doing, but he tries to kiss back. It's exhilarating and terrifying and _good_. He tries not to, but he starts crying, and he can't make himself stop. "It's not you," he manages through the awful tears. "It's not your fault." And he clings to Howard, because he needs him to understand that it's really _not_ his fault, that he didn't do anything _wrong_.

"It's all right," Howard says, stroking Steve's hair, stroking Steve's back. "It's fine. It was..." He blows out a puff of air through his lips. "...bad timing, or at least that's part of it. And that kind of _is_ my fault."

Steve presses closer. At some point he's crawled halfway into Howard's lap, but since Howard doesn't seem to mind, Steve doesn't care either. "It was good," he says when he can finally breathe without choking. "It felt really _good_."

Howard runs his fingers through Steve's hair. "I'm okay, Steve." He shakes his head once. "You didn't hurt my pride or anything." He kisses Steve's temple. "Right now, you just need time."

Time to let go of someone who was _never his_.

o0o

"What the hell happened between you and Stark?" Bucky asks late the next night after watching Steve through narrowed, considering eyes all day.

"Nothing." Steve stares up at the dull brown of the tent above his cot, sighs. "Nothing."

"Yeah...right." Bucky rolls his eyes. "You got better at a lot of things, Rogers, but you haven't gotten any better at lying."

Making a frustrated sound, Steve rolls to sit up on the edge of his bed, forearms resting on his thighs. "Nothing 'happened'—he kissed me, and I cried all over his thousand dollar suit." It was pathetic. It was embarrassing. And Steve would almost want to kiss him again were he not sure he'd just end up bawling once more. Howard's been admirably patient and understanding, but everyone has limits.

Bucky's brows twist in incredulity. "That your usual reaction to bein' kissed, Stevie?"

Steve snorts, staring down at his toes. It's not like he's tried it enough times to know any 'usual reaction'. "Why don't you kiss me and find out?" Bucky leans in like he means to actually do it, and Steve swats him away. "Maybe you should go kiss Howard." And maybe he does. Steve doesn't want to know.

o0o

As Steve forces the plane down into the ocean, he realizes—though, admittedly, he might not be thinking clearly—that _this_ is why he never had a soulmate.

The water is cold, shocking, though maybe it shouldn't be. His fingers hurt from holding the controls so tightly, but it doesn't matter. They're going numb quickly enough, so it's fading.

It wouldn't have been fair to them, when he died so young.

o0o

When Steve lets Director Fury take him back to the SHIELD base, out of the too-bright cacophony that is modern-day New York, a young agent with a clipboard asks him how long he's had his soul-mark. Steve stares at her for several moments, mouth gaping before he even manages to make words again. "What—what do you mean I have a soul-mark?"

He spends _hours_ staring at it in the mirrors. It's unmistakable, unapologetic, blatant in its contrast—warm, rich brown against his skin.

When did it happen? When in the seventy years that Steve slept in the ice, did God finally say, 'Oh, here's one for you, Steven'? Steve doesn't even know how to pray, how to say, 'thank you' for this. Like Sarah who laughed, he's been bitter for too many years.

There's a database now, they tell him, Howard's legacy. Or at least, part of it. Helping thousands of people each year find their soulmates. It's global, and the price is so much cheaper than it ever was back in his day—though this one's going on SHIELD's tab. Steve lets them analyze his mark, but his soulmate isn't in the database.

"Maybe they'll get it done," Fury says, shrugging as he takes a seat behind his desk. "You're in there now, so if they do, they'll find you." He probably thinks a soulmate would help Steve adjust to life in this new time, and maybe he's right.

But it feels unlikely that someone who's had a mark their whole life will suddenly get it analyzed now. Whoever it is probably doesn't want to know.

Fury has two marks, both scarred. Steve doesn't ask.

o0o

Sam Wilson is born with an adult-sized mark on his neck. That sometimes happens, but it's _rare_. He doesn't remember, of course, since he was a baby and babies don't tend to remember much, but he remembers being four and holding a second mirror up to see it. It's always been a sort of straw-tinged hue, quiet and unassuming—but _large_—against his skin. As Sam grows, the mark stays the same.

"That's weird," a kid in his class says, poking at him with a pencil. Sam glares back over his shoulder, but the kid just goes on, "Some grown up wants you. What a _freak_." Sam doesn't ask if it's him or the 'grown up' who's the freak.

The teacher tells the other boy to leave Sam alone, and he doesn't poke him again, but he still stares at him.

He's not the only one.

o0o

Most of his friends are excited to meet their soulmates, but every year that passes Sam's just glad he hasn't yet. Because every year is another closer to when Sam himself will be a grown up. And then it won't matter. There's nothing 'weird' about two grown ups being together.

He counts it as a major victory when he greets sixteen without his soulmate. He can breathe a little easier.

He could use StarkMark now, but he _doesn't_. His soulmate would be in his thirties, at least. That's still weird as hell.

His eighteenth birthday comes and goes, but that's not yet good enough, because he can't even legally drink alcohol. He'll be a full adult at twenty-one.

But twenty-one is _barely_ an adult; it barely counts. It's still early; he needs time to mature, to catch up. He needs things like...financial security.

Of course his soulmate is waiting, has been waiting a long time. But it's better this way, better for both of them. It won't do them any favours to start things off with a disturbing power imbalance.

o0o

"You should get that thing analyzed," Riley says, nodding towards the back of Sam's neck. "Once we're done this tour or something, right?"

Sam shakes his head where it rests on his folded arms—he's lying face down on his narrow little cot. "I've had this damn thing since I was born."

"Yeah?" Riley looks back over his shoulder from where he's digging through his bag. "Me too—my girl's a year older than me." Riley's got a fiancée back home, and he misses her even when they talk a lot—they're stupidly, eye-rollingly in love.

"No, I mean," Sam clarifies, "it's been this _big_ since I was born."

"Oh." Riley sits on the edge of his bed, folding a t-shirt in his hands. "So your soulmate is at least...sixteen to eighteen years older than you?" He shrugs. "That's pretty rare, but it's not like it's his fault."

Smiling lopsidedly, Sam shakes his head again. "I like how you just assume it's a guy."

Dropping the t-shirt in his lap, Riley raises his hands. "I'm not judging either way—I don't buy that crap that soulmates are somehow 'controlled' by our dark inner desires or whatever. It's just random chance, you know? Some people don't even _like_ their soulmates when they meet them." Which is _true_, but supposedly very rare. Then he grins, a little apologetic. "I just kinda lucked out."

Rolling onto his side, Sam raises an eyebrow. "So you're telling me...you're not marrying her 'cause she's your soulmate; you're marrying her because you happen to 'like' her."

Riley rolls his eyes. "I'm marrying her because I _love_ her. But I _met_ her because she's my soulmate. We used StarkMark—figured, might as well put myself in the database when I was eighteen, but she was already in there." He tilts his head to one side, smile lopsided. "What can it hurt? At least then, you know." He shrugs. "If it doesn't work out, you move on from there, find someone else—there are even websites for unmarked, scarred, and 'soulmate incompatible' individuals to find others not in the...soulmate pool."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Why do _you_ know that?"

Riley laughs. "Did a project on it in high school." His face grows serious again. "But you should find out who your soulmate _is_ first, before you give up on them." He shrugs, leaning back on his elbows. "That's what I think anyway."

o0o

Sam is back home, working at the VA, before he really feels like he's 'ready' to meet his soulmate. The poor guy—Sam's admitting that it really very probably does have to be a guy, based on the size—must be over fifty by now, and it strikes Sam one day that maybe he's _lonely_. Hell, maybe _Sam's_ lonely. It's different now that...now that it's just him.

He slaps down his fifteen bucks and gets his mark analyzed. The result comes back: 'Steve Rogers', USA, and a phone number that was current a year previous when he got his own mark done.

He's only been in the system one year. That makes Sam feel a bit better for waiting this long himself. Maybe he had the same sort of idea Sam had, due to the age difference.

The StarkMark office offers him a private room to make the call if he wants. He does.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is, uh, Sam Wilson." He rubs at his forehead, grimacing and kind of glad the person on the other end can't see him. "I just had my mark analysis done and StarkMark gave me this number..." He lets out a puff of air through his lips. "...and the name 'Steve Rogers'. Is—is that you?"

"Yes! Yeah, uh, sorry—I mean—" The voice on the other end sounds even more nervous than Sam feels. It also sounds so _young_. Not what Sam expected, but then maybe he'd spent way too long 'expecting'. He'd spent his whole _life_ expecting. "I'm Steve Rogers." He clears his throat. "Wow, it's really— You said your name was Sam? Sam Wilson?"

"Yeah." Sliding into the chair provided, Sam leans his elbows on the desk. "I—I'd like to meet you." It's a fair bet Steve wants to meet him too. That's sort of the _point_ of StarkMark.

"Where are you?" Steve's voice is edged with excitement. "I'm in New York."

"DC here. Still at the StarkMark office." He's pretty sure it's the only one in DC. It's not even that far to NY...maybe a four hour drive? Sam laughs softly.

"I can be there in an hour, maybe a little more," Steve says. "I— I have a friend. I can get a flight."

Sam leans back in the chair. "Wow, hey, no rush." He grins, chest expanding with anticipation, elation. "I mean, I'd love to meet you, whenever it's convenient, but it's not a 'drop everything' sort of thing, you know?"

"I'm— God, I'm sorry." A pause, then Steve adds. "I've just—I've— I just want to see you."

"That's cool." Sam relaxes against the cushioned back of the chair—it's a pretty nice one, better than the one he has for his desk at home. "If you really want it to be today...I mean, I'm free for the rest of it. Whatever works for you." They set up a meeting at a small park nearby. "Near the fountain," Sam tells him, and sends him a selfie so Steve'll know who to look for.

Steve texts in response:

_You're a good-looking guy_.

Sam sends his thanks for the compliment, and a moment later Steve sends a picture of himself...and _wow_. He's kind of stupidly good-looking—blond and blue-eyed with a bashful smile—but he _is_ young. Maybe he's had a little—or a ton—of work done?

Sam sends a careful text:

_Is that a current picture?_

Steve responds:

_I'm a LOT older than I look. It's a long story._

Shrugging, Sam sends back:

_I'm looking forward to hearing it._

A trusted friend once told him to give his soulmate a chance before giving up on them.

o0o

There's a little coffee shop right next to the park, and Sam feels like he could use a coffee, but maybe Steve'll want one too when he arrives, so he waits.

It's been an hour, but it's still earlier than Sam expected Steve's text:

_In DC now._ _Helicopter's landing. See you soon_.

Sam stands up—he was sitting watching the fountain from a park bench, but he'll be easier to spot if he's standing. He sends back:

_Great. I'm by the fountain. Helicopter, hey?_

Steve sends back:

_Yeah. Friend made me promise I'd ask for whatever transportation I needed for this._

Steve must have rich and important friends.

It's another moment, and then Steve is standing across from Sam, on the other side of the fountain. He's stopped, staring. He _can't_ be more than thirty years old. But StarkMark doesn't really make mistakes, ever. This is his soulmate, the guy whose fingerprint's been on his neck since he was born.

Sam approaches him, smiling, a friendly question in his eyes and the tilt of his head. "Vampire?"

Steve laughs. "Something like that." Ducking his head in what must be the most adorable way possible and peeking at Sam through soft lashes, he rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Um, it's really nice to meet you, Sam."

Sam offers a handshake, and Steve accepts. "Do you like coffee? Would you like a coffee?" Sam asks, indicating the place. Steve lets Sam lead him inside, and they end up in a booth drinking fancy tall coffees with flavour syrups and whipped cream. "So." Sam leans forward, arms resting on the table as he fiddles with the insulator ring on his cup. "I was in the air force until recently—now I work at the VA. You?"

"I, um, I was in the military too," Steve says, and it's not exactly a surprise, that. "But..." He rubs both hands over his face. "This is just so complicated, my—my life."

"It's fine," Sam says with an easy smile. "'Complicated' doesn't scare me off." Steve _really_ doesn't seem like a drug dealer, a pimp, or a serial killer, and Sam's always been pretty good at reading people.

Biting his lip, Steve offers him a smile, and there's something in his eyes that makes Sam want to wrap him in his arms and _keep him safe_ from everything that's hurt him so damn much. Steve rests his hands palm-down on the table, letting out a breath. "I guess if you haven't turned and run yet..."

Sam shakes his head, taking a sip of his coffee. "Not really what I do." At least not _now_, or not anymore, or... But he'd been _hiding_ more than 'running', technically.

Steve stares down at the dark wood surface of the table and finally blurts out what he's been trying to say: supersoldier serum and sleeping in the ice for seventy years. He's _that_ Steve Rogers. Holy _hell_. He's even got the Avengers identicard to prove it. He helped fight off the Chitauri invasion... With nearly seventy years in ice factored out, he's actually seven years _younger_ than Sam. And he's beautiful, and he's _scared_. "Look..." Steve is saying, sliding his coffee cup back and forth a bit, "I'd understand if you..."

Sam shakes his head emphatically. "Still not running, Steve." He reaches across the table and takes Steve's hand. He offers him a gentle, encouraging smile. "You wanna see if our marks react?"

Steve's face brightens. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

They go to Sam's place, so they won't have an audience. Steve holds Sam's hand all the way there in the cab.

o0o

As Sam closes the door behind him, he asks, "So how do you want to do this? You want to try mine first, or...?"

Steve shakes his head. "You try mine first."

Sam has him sit on the couch, facing away from him. The mark is brown—a common colour, especially on those with naturally fair skin. Apparently God usually likes his marks to stand out. Sam brushes his finger across it, and it flashes bright gold—not metallic, but like a sunset in August. "Wow," he breathes. Then, since Steve can't see, he adds, "It's bright yellow, sort of gold—it's beautiful." He's grinning, but his brow furrows in curiosity. "Feel like anything?"

"Warm." There are tears in Steve's voice, and emotion is all but crackling across his skin. "It feels so warm, Sam." Reaching back, he puts his hand over Sam's, holding it against the mark as he calms his breathing.

o0o

As Steve touches Sam's mark, he can barely breathe. It's like having asthma all over again, or maybe he just can't remember what that was like. But his chest actually _hurts_. "It's—" he tries, because Sam wants to know, but Steve's having so much trouble speaking.

"Changing colour?" Sam prompts.

"Yeah..." Steve's chest is filled with a million fragments of imploded tears. "Red. It goes red." Red like the blood on Bucky's hand as he cleaned Steve's busted head. Red like Peggy's lipstick, art in motion as she spoke. Red like Howard's not-quite-flying car. Red like the roses on his mother's grave, petals falling like rain. Red like the stripes on his shield, like the face under Shmidt's mask, like spatters on the snow, like...the colour he couldn't even _see_ properly most of his life. But it had always been his favourite, regardless; it had been a symbol of what he couldn't have, what he didn't deserve—a sign that the world was cruel, a rallying point in his fight to change it.

"Okay, okay, I've got you." Sam's turning around, holding Steve in a warm, sure embrace as he cries.

And it's far too much like that time with Howard, and Steve's saying, "I'm sorry," trying so hard not to ruin this—again, like he always does—but this time he _does_ match. They do match. This time it's real. "I used to be colourblind," he tries, an inadequate shard of explanation as he rubs at the stubborn tears that won't stop leaking from his eyes.

"Hey." Sam kisses him, soft and gentle. "You waited a long time for me; I get that. I shoulda got my mark analyzed earlier—you coulda found me right when you woke up." It would have only made one year difference, though. It's not _Sam's_ fault that Steve was born most of a century too soon.

Steve shakes his head. "It's not—I'm just—" He takes a breath, wipes at his eyes again. "You're here now. We're here, together." He holds Sam tight against his chest. Sam is beautiful, and Sam is _kind_. Sam's smile could bring dawn to the centre of a black hole, banish demons, send shadows slinking in shame. Sam is everything he could ever want. Steve's never going to let him go.

o0o

They've been together for two weeks, two weeks Steve's had enforced leave from Fury who seemed equal parts amused and relieved at Steve's news. And Steve's never going to get tired of waking up next to Sam—of cuddling in bed with Sam. It's warm like a spring sun on his face, warm like a midwinter fire, like fuzzy blankets, like cocoa with marshmallows.

Sam shifts in his grip. "Steve." His voice cuts through the pleasant fog, and Steve makes an unhappy noise, pressing his face farther into Sam's neck, breathing in the warm, clean smell of him. "Steve," Sam tries again, chuckling softly. "This whole safely harness thing you've got going on here with your arms is cute...but I gotta get up." Steve growls quietly, and tightens his grip, not yet awake enough to care about anything beyond his own comfort—and Sam is so comforting.

"Steve." Sam's starting to sound a bit more urgent, a bit more exasperated. "I gotta use the bathroom." He squirms against Steve's grip. "Come on, man." He laughs, quiet and a little awkward. "If this whole..._thing_ is one of your kinks, we can talk about it, but I'd prefer to do that when we're both fully conscious."

Blushing, Steve lets him go, mumbling an abashed, "Sorry."

When Sam returns from the bathroom—he really isn't gone long—Steve is sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. Guilty blue eyes flicker up to meet Sam's gentle brown ones then fall unseeing to the carpet again. "Sorry," he tries. "I know...I know I'm not _good_ at this. I'm too clingy." He shakes his head. He's probably going to drive Sam insane, drive him away.

"It's fine; you're fine." Sitting next to him, Sam presses a kiss to Steve's temple. "And who the hell said you were clingy?"

One side of Steve's lips turns up. "Just Bucky, I guess—I mean, at first I would push him away, push everyone away. Or, y'know, try." He shakes his head, smiling wryly at his foolishness. "Trying to prove I could—that I didn't need help." His broad shoulders rise and fall in a small shrug. "But after the serum...I dunno, I guess I changed? It was like—I felt everything more strongly, and I couldn't do it anymore, couldn't pretend I didn't care." Couldn't pretend he didn't need anyone. Folding his arms across his knees, he grips his biceps, hair falling across his forehead. "I pulled Bucky out of that Hydra lab, helped him walk—'cause he couldn't at first—and by the time we'd got back to the Allies' camp, he'd decided I was clingy." He smiles against the tears that threaten. "He'd smile when he said it, though, so I don't think he really minded too much."

Taking his hand, Sam laces their fingers together. "Were you in love with him?"

It's like a slug, numb and sudden, in the middle of Steve's chest. He turns wide eyes on Sam. "I love _you_." He squeezes Sam's hand. "You're my soulmate."

"I know." He squeezes Steve's hand back. "I love you too." Sam leans into his side a bit, warm and welcoming—and welcome. "But emotions can be confusing, messy. I wouldn't be mad or anything."

Steve shakes his head. "It wasn't like that." Because, it really wasn't. He offers Sam half an apologetic smirk. "And besides, I was in love with Peggy." She's actually alive still. She went on living while Steve was out—she has grandchildren now.

"Oh, _right_." Sam nods, teeth bright in his broad smile. "I see." He bumps his bicep against Steve's. "You've got good taste."

Leaning in, Steve presses a kiss to the corner of Sam's mouth. Sam really is amazing, and Steve grins. "I guess I do." Though really, God picked Sam for him. Closing his eyes, he sends out a silent prayer of joyful gratitude. Resting his head on Sam's strong shoulder, Steve says, "I guess this is kinda cheesy, but..."

Sam presses a kiss to the top of his head. "What is?"

Steve hides his blush against the soft material of Sam's t-shirt. "You—the wait, it was worth it."

Tilting Steve's face up so he can kiss him, Sam says, "I really don't mind you being cheesy." He laughs, shaking his head, then asks, "You wanna go back to cuddling?"

Steve peeks at Sam through his lashes. "Yeah."

Sam chuckles, low and warm as he pulls Steve down on the bed next to him. "You're probably the most adorable person ever to be _born_." He presses a kiss to the back of Steve's neck, to his soul-mark. "I have no idea how I got this lucky."

o0o

**Title is a reference to the biblical Sarah in Genesis 18:10-15.**

o0o


End file.
